We got Calli before we bought our home. She was the coolest, most bad-ass cat ever.She was a lap-cat, a cuddler, snuggler, and a kisser.She didn’t like many people, but those she liked knew it.She was….

She was Calli.And we had to say goodbye yesterday.

Calli got sick.She lost a lot of weight, was jaundiced, had pancreatitis, and possibly hepatic lipidosis (unconfirmed, but likely).We tried.

Painkiller, antibiotic, anti-nausea, appetite stimulant…We syringe-fed her food and water.She wouldn’t eat on her own.She barely drank on her own.

We had 4 options:1) Nasal-esophageal feeding tube2) Hooking her up to and I.V. (w/hospitalization) for nutritional supplementation3) Continue force-feeding her4) Euthanasia

After everything we went through with Peanut, we knew that Calli would not do well with a tube, and the chance of successful treatment with 1 & 2 was very low. We didn’t want her to suffer. If we tried to continue feeding her by hand, she would, most likely, slowly starve to death and die at home.

I could not let her go through that.And I couldn’t put my husband through waking up to find her body.I don’t know that i could handle that, either.

Letting her go was the most humane thing we could do for her.And it was the most painful thing for us.

I’ve been writing a lot lately, which was (sort of) the whole point of starting a blog.

I needed a place to vent, to find myself and my purpose. I don’ know that I have found either, yet, but I feel like I’m on a pretty good track.

My writing technique has suffered from neglect. I’m not quite happy with what comes out, because it isn’t coming out how it sounds in my head. But I can feel the rusty joints moving and am confident that some things will come back to me.
At this moment, though, I still feel like what I have been writing is coming out as a bit contrived, juvenile, and predictable. I think that’s probably normal, and I have to push through it.

A lot of the things I write are a bit depressing – death, losing love, depression – because those are the things that push me to write. They are things I know, or think I know, and the words fall fairly easily onto the keyboard. Not everything I write is from experience, though, but I can create scenarios in my head that make sense, if only in that over-romanticized Hollywood manner.

I enjoy writing (or, typing, in most cases), because it gets a lot of images out of my brain that I can’t stand to have stuck in there anymore. Some things are traumatic, gruesome, and just plain sad, and I don’t want them filling up the space anymore. Most ideas get started, but never finished. Or I start them, leave them, and come back later when I feel like I can clean it up.
Some things will NEVER be published to the internet, because they aren’t for you, but need to get thrown out of my skull before I stab someone in the throat with a rusty spoon.

I dream.
A lot.

Most nights, I don’t remember more than little snippets. And those are usually pretty basic, weird, dreamy things that mean nothing to me.
Other nights, I feel like I am being told a story. It’s not really a precognition thing (though, I do experience deja vu often), but it’s more like… I don’t even know what it is; it’s not always clear.

And some nights, like the one I had two days ago, are awful.
I sleep, but it isn’t a good sleep.
I dream, but the dreams are terrible.

That night, it was like the horror-version of Groundhog Day.
I died, many times, only to wake up and do it again.

I was stabbed, beaten, shot, drowned, suffocated, attacked by a shark (which actually ended in drowning, since the shark didn’t kill me quick enough). I was buried alive, hit by a train, blown up by a vest-bomb, and poisoned. There were probably more in there, but I lost some of them in the ether of my memory. It’s for the best, really.

The whole next day, I felt uneasy and sick.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was going to happen.
As of right now, nothing is going on, and I am okay with that.

Anyway… the writing.
I know the shorts I write aren’t that good.
Honestly, I don’t really care.

I take that back.
I care a little. There are a select few people in my life whose opinions mean so much to me, that I would be mortified if they read my b.s.
I’m not going to tell them that they can’t read it; and if they wanted to comment on it, I would take the criticism. But I would also be really, really disappointed in myself. But I am aware that I am not that good at this.

It isn’t about content.
it’s about getting the monsters out of my head.

She woke up to the sound of rain on the window.
The pounding in her head (from the copious amounts of booze at last night’s party) and the churning in her stomach were enough to make her swear off drinking – again.

It was a good party, though.
All the pretty people were there – actors, singers, poets, politicians, brokers and dealers. If you were “it”, you were there.

On the day she got the invitation, she thought she has finally made it.
All her hard work.
All the backroom deals, and shady business.
Finally, someone recognized her talent.

She spent weeks trying to find the perfect dress.
Black with lace at the shoulders. If was light and flowy; she had no need for the body-hugging leather that many others in her profession chose to wear.
She felt it was unbecoming and, frankly, a bit cliche.

I guess I didn’t have anything planned, per se. Frankly, I didn’t think I would write so many.

It’s been a crazy year since I began blogging.
Peanut’s death, lots of dancing (joining first the student troupe, then the performance troupe), on-and-off illnesses, weird dreams, trying to find my path.
It’s been overwhelming at times.

Overall, though, I feel like it was a good year. I certainly hope, however, that this next year is better.

I woke up this morning feeling wrong. I had strange dreams all night, but I couldn’t really remember them.

My husband called me today, to see how I was feeling.
He mentioned that he had some strange dreams last night, too.

Wierd.

Anyway…
While I was working on my coin bra, and “watching” old episodes ‘Angel’, I had sort of mini-waking dreams. Flashes of things that i know I’ve seen before, but weren’t real.

I was in a car.
Not my car (I drive a little sedan), but a station wagon. I don’t recall who I was with, but they felt familiar.
The biggest, and by that I mean most overwhelming, memory of it all was the cats.
Three of them.
One was my Peanut. The other two were teeny, tiny kittens.
They were absolutely adorable.
And needed my protection.

It was a warm day, and whoever I was with kept insisting on leaving them in the car.
But I couldn’t do it.
They were so small and cute and fluffy.
And it was my Peanut.
I couldn’t leave her in there. In the heat.

Tonight was a big night for me.
Tonight was a happy night.
Tonight was a sad night.

Tonight was bittersweet.

I met up with my dance instructor, a lovely Tasha, before our performance. We got ready – makeup, costume prep, did a llittle mini-rehersal. There was concern about the performance of one of my troupe mates.

Now, this gal is pretty darn cool. She’s sweet and smart.
But, despite her years of dance experience, she’s still a bit slow on correcting mistakes. Her background is in a variation of Tribal Style. It’s just close, but not quite close enough. There are movements that are very similar. But, there are movements that don’t translate well from one to the other.

I will tell you, I believe that Tasha is an amazing teacher. She gives great criticism, and I take that to heart.
She’s been dancing this a lot longer than I have and knows it pretty darn close to inside and out. It may take me a bit to correct, but I damn-well try. There are muscle memories I have built up from cabaret that don’t translate well into ATS.

My troupemate, however, hasn’t quite caught on.
And doesn’t seem to be the type that takes criticism well.
She’s rigid and pulls out moves that don’t aren’t legit ATS. Her cues are…um… lacking.
She’s a super-tall gal, and I am, well, not so much. there’s more than a foot difference. When she’s in lead, I have a difficult time watching her, as I have to look up. When she cues, I can’t always tell. She’s subtle.

Cueing is a nuance.
I am not always the best, and it’s something about which I am very conscious.
She is not.
At least, that’s how it feels.

I kind of feel like the teacher’s pet. I’m actually really happy about it… but also worried.
That’s a lot to live up to… being good and open and whatnot.

We decided – ok, Tasha decided, and rightfully so – that instead of troupemate taking 1/2 the song, as originally planned, Tasha would “lead hog” and take half, while the rest was left to the two students. It ended up being Tasha, troupemate, me, then back to Tasha. I feel good about it, despite my eff-up ( I miscounted the beats and almost started the refraine early). I can’t wait to see the video.
The song we used tonight was ‘Azara l’Akhdar off the Tribal Spirit album.

I left ‘The Gathering’ early to go to a memorial.
This wasn’t a fancy thing, either.
No. We had karaoke at a bar in N. St. Paul.

My cousin Chris died two years ago in a car accident.
My older brother and I were close with him. Whenever he came to town, the three of us would hit up the nearest karaoke spot and hang out, sing, drink, whatever.
We’ve decided to make it an annual thing to honor our cousin.
And drink.
We like a good excuse to drink.

I sang.
A lot.
And drank.
A bit.

I would actually go into it more, but even after two years, it’s still tough.
I miss him, terribly.

Bind this sick person to Heaven,
for from Earth she is being torn away!

Of the brave person who was so strong,
the strength has departed.

Of the righteous servant,
the force does not return.
In this bodily frame she lies dangerously ill.

But Ishtar, who in her dwelling,
is grieved concerning this being,
descends from her mountain unvisited of humans.

To the door of this sick person she comes.
The sick person listens!
Who is there? Who comes?

It is Ishtar, daughter of the Moon God!
Like pure silver may this garment be shining white!
Like brass may she be radiant!

To the Sun, greatest of the gods, may she ascend!
And may the Sun, greatest of the gods,
receive this soul into these holy hands!

My husband’s grandmother is sick.
We only recently found out. And tonight we got the call.
Cancer.

The same beast that took my grandfather, and so many more, is back. She’s in the hospital now, and is refusing treatment.. My father-in-law just came to pick up J to see her. Mom is there already. They don’t expect it to be long, and there isn’t much they can do but make her comfortable.

Grandma is a strong woman, a stubborn woman, and I love her.
She has a heart so full of compassion and love for not just those close to her, but complete strangers. She supervises the rec. center in her trailer park community, so the kids in the area have a safe place to go. Yeah, she’s that kind of woman.

I lost my maternal grandfather a few years ago, and both paternal grandparents more recently – within a few days of one another.
J lost both of his grandfathers within about a month of each other the same year mom’s dad passed.
His other grandmother was the most recent to pass away.

So we were each left with one grandma.
There’s really something special about that generation of women. I don’t know that I could even explain it, but it’s there.

I wish I could be there with them right now.
I wish I could stay by J’s side for comfort. Not just for him, but for me, as well.
And for her.

Tomorrow is going to be rough, no matter the outcome.
I work with J’s sister…. my guess is that she will be at the hospital tonight, too.
I think I might have to bring in some chocolate. And maybe some beer.
::sigh::

Deep Peace to You
Deep peace of the running wave to you.
Deep peace of the flowing air to you.
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.
Deep peace of the shining stars to you.
Deep peace of the infinite peace to you.